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Today, I had a remarkable experience at a Dunkin’ Donuts.

I had been seeing Dunkin’ Donuts around and haven’t actually tried them in years, so I got curious. This particular DD was part of a gas station, and it was glorious. As you walk in, you can hardly tell it’s there. Clearly it was more about the drive-thru than the front. As I approach, the menu reveals itself from behind the upper cigarette shelf that ran from the gas station register to the DD wall.

No one is behind the counter. There is the donut display you’d expect to see in most gas stations, but the shelves were black instead of white, and there was no glass door displaying them with lights. Just some doughn- er, donuts, on some shelves. To the right of the shelves is a door with a dish sink and an employee tending to the dishes.

Minutes pass. Guessing they get more orders from the drive-thru than the register, I politely cough. The employee, a 15-17 year old girl, keeps on cleaning. I cough again, and this time she half-turns around to see me. She stops, puts the dish down, slogs the couple steps to the register, and sort of rolls out a tired, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, uh, what does the ‘classic donut’ cover for options?”

Without a word she takes a step back, glances at the donuts, and simply indicates the six options.

“…Okay. I’ll have the double chocolate and a small coffee please.”

Still silent, she takes the donut up in a napkin, plops both items in a bag, and asks, “Cream or sugar?” 

“A little of both please”

The coffee thunks onto the counter followed by the donut bag.

“That’s $2.75. Receipt?”

“No thanks, have a good one.”


I felt kinda bad for her as I walked away, that how beautifully unexceptional the whole situation was is forever lost to her. All I could think on exiting the gas station, sighing contentedly,

“Ah, amurica run no dundun.”

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